


like vinegar to the tongue

by alunbalanced



Series: trempé dans le vin [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Gen, a fair bit of worldbuilding is involved, awakening writers did virion dirty and I seek to rectify
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:09:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28765329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alunbalanced/pseuds/alunbalanced
Summary: a study of he who strides large across history’s greatest stagewe begin before the first crossing of the sea, where a man in red armor is cutting a bloody swath through the continent, and virion struggles to find the best path to protect his people
Series: trempé dans le vin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2109039
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

To say that Virion, twelfth of the name, Duke of Rosanne, was drunk, would have been blasphemous.

He was not drunk. What did it matter that he had emptied a bottle of a vintage so old it had nearly gone to vinegar — he did not think it was so odd, given the report he had just listened to, the results of the first battle against this so called Conquerer, a man who stretched out his hand over their smaller neighbors to the north and took and took, and could he really count himself shocked that Rosanne had been next? Virion cursed his lack of foresight.

He had been stone-faced as the report’s death toll counted higher and higher. The face he presented to his commanders had to be such a one: hard and unyielding and ready to bring the battle to those who had dared to reach for the lush lands Rosanne boasted. And so, when the report had finished, he clenched his jaw and asked as evenly as if he had been asking his general to join him for afternoon tea, to prepare a room for the war council to meet and discuss strategies for protecting the land and it’s vulnerable inhabitants, and to procure the names of those fallen and get them to him by the morning.

Their families deserved to grieve them properly.

To bind together wreaths of flowers symbolizing the most innate traits held by their loved one, twined with flowers of peace and death, to hang on their doors until the blooms withered and died.

To carve a container that would hold trinkets that reminded them of the one deceased, and to burn it and scatter the ashes when it was filled.

Virion was not a drunk, but he was a man who mourned the loss of any life belonging to the province he had been raised to love and care for. The people in it were his, and he was theirs, and the bitter tang of the wine on his tongue was nothing compared to the bile rising in his throat.

He lifted a hand to cradle his face, leaning forward on his elbow against the desk of his study. As the ruling party of the province, it would be unseemly to show too much emotion — but he remembered the determination and grit on the faces of every one of his soldiers and it was like he couldn’t breathe, so profound was his grief. He knew those men and women, had spent his youth training among them, learning the way of bending a bow, how to handle a dagger and sword and spear and axe, though he never took to those as easily as with the preferred weapon of his house. He had fought in battle alongside them, and to know they would never return to their home — a tear slid down his cheek from under his hand, unrestrained by the expectation of the title he held.

Pouring another glass, he tilted it back against his lips, a grimace twisting his face as it would when drinking a bitter medicine. He supposed, in a way, it was, though it didn’t serve to dull the pain in his chest. The haze that had descended over him made his thoughts fuzzier, his mood maudlin, and he knew he should stop there. Lifting the bottle again, he eyed it blearily, eyes still suspiciously damp. It was empty.

It was empty, and his heart still ached for the loss of his people. The tears behind his eyes welled up, and he couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat as he gave into his emotions. A soft sob left his lips as he let his head fall back into his hands, shoulders shaking.

He mourned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It’s not a sipping wine. It’s a mourning wine. You drain it. Like this.”  
> \- _Anansi Boys_ , Neil Gaiman


	2. Chapter 2

His back was straight as an arrow and the sound of his knuckles rapping at the door set his teeth on edge. Virion had spent the morning ensuring an impeccable appearance, fresh and clean clothing, a cold compress against his face to banish any lingering redness from the previous night… and an impassive face to anyone observing. Two of his household guard stood behind him, one at each shoulder. They’d been emphatic about escorting him, even such a short distance — he was grateful for their wariness, even if he wished they would maintain their distance for this visit. He could hear the shuffling from inside the cottage, a feminine voice calling out cheerfully.

“Just a mo’, I’ll be right there! If that’s you, Lissy, I sure hope you’re hungry — I’ve got some fresh scones to go with te—“

The voice, which had steadily wandered nearer, cut off suddenly with a gasp. The woman, tall and frozen in the act of untying a messy apron, stared, eyes wide, at Virion. It took her a moment to snap her mouth shut, blinking rapidly.

“My—… your Grace! I weren’t… wasn’t expecting such fine company!”

The smile he gave felt hollow, and he inclined his head slightly in respect.

“My apologies for arriving unannounced, Madam Odette. If I could have a moment of your time? I hate to intrude, but it’s a matter of importance…”

He saw the exact moment she realized why he was there. Her eyes had dropped out of respect and caught on the small bundle of asphodel, twined in ivy. Saw her pallor grow white and sickly. The fear in her brown eyes. He responded softly.

“... perhaps I might speak privately with you for a moment, Madam.”

Her movements were wooden as she silently stepped back from the doorway to allow him and his ill tidings past the door. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, catching the eye of one of his guards — Adrienne, he recalled — and she nodded immediately in understanding.

They would not accompany him inside.

His gaze turned back to Odette, his own heart twinging in sympathy for her grief even before she knew it for true. Odette more or less collapsed into her seat, a tea tray already set out in anticipation of a pleasant afternoon with a friend. Virion forewent the chair, choosing instead to kneel in front of her. His voice did not waver as he gently took one of her hands in his, wrapping her loose fingers around the tiny offering he held.

“Madam, it is with the deepest regret that I… I must inform you that your wife, Madam Genevieve… was killed in a recent battle.”

A sob met his words, dry and pained and he felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach hearing it. It took him a moment to gather his composure again, and he stayed silent for a few more moments as Odette hunched over their clasped hands, her fingers far too tight. The flowers within crunched in protest, and still he stayed silent, respectful of the depth of her bereavement. When she finally spoke again, at length, her voice was hoarse with tears.

“H-how…?”

He paused, his own eyes dropping to the flowers between them.

“... She was struck down by a cavalry unit among forces sent by a man named Walhart. Many fell in the effort to repel him from Rosanne — it is no comfort I offer, but she died honorably, defending her country. I grieve your loss, my lady, and share in it. The world is poorer for losing her.”

The tears were renewed, and Virion was hard pressed not to let his own fall. He had done his share of grieving in the privacy of his study the night before — the words of his father and grandfather resounded in his head, instructing him to never lose his composure in front of anyone. Not his guards, and certainly not his people.

He held her hand as she bent forward, bowed in mourning, and the other hand slipped free to press lightly to the side of her neck, resting there as a reminder that in her despair, she was not alone. They remained like that until her tears began to abate, and Virion carefully pulled his hand from her neck to cup her hand again, bringing her hand to his lips to kiss the back of it lightly before drawing away in full. His voice was husky, as if he had wept with her.

“I will leave you to mourn her properly — please, if you require access to any flowers for her wreath, avail yourself of my greenhouses. Farewell, Madam.”

He bowed deeply — more deeply than any noble should bow to a commoner, but though she didn’t see it, he knew in his heart she deserved all of the highest courtesies for the sacrifice her spouse had made.

As he left, he made sure the door behind him was properly closed before noticing the young woman waylaid by his guards. She was questioning them, adamant she be allowed inside, until she caught sight of him and shock stilled her tongue. Catching herself just as quickly, she dropped into a curtsy.

“Your Grace! I… I didn’t know you were here…! I was just visitin’ Madam Beaulieu! I…” A pause as she furrowed her brow in concern, her desire to respectfully drop her gaze warring with how she looked at him with wary curiosity. “... what’s happened?”

His voice stayed as even as he could manage, though it still retained a note of strain.

“Madam Beaulieu has suffered a grievous loss, Mademoiselle — I have just delivered the news.”

The steady words almost broke on the final word, and he took a breath to steady himself, watching eyes widen in horror and hands slowly lift to cover a gaping mouth.

“... I do not know if she will welcome company at this moment, but if you are dear to her, it may bring her a measure of solace. Your pardon, my lady — I… I have more news to deliver to other families.”

He sketched another bow, not as deep as the last, and turned on his heel to begin the journey anew. The door opened and shut again with his back to it, guards falling in behind him. It was a struggle to keep his face neutral, even with all the years of schooling behind him, and he addressed the two women trailing him in a low voice.

“How many families are left, Maris?”

The number was engraved on his heart, but the verbal reminder of how many had yet to learn the fate of their loved ones nearly buckled his knees, the smaller woman speaking softly enough not to be heard by bystanders.

“Thirty-four families in this county, your Grace, and seventy-nine in the other two.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A long day promised a long evening — when Virion arrived back at his estate, weary and heartsore, he was greeted by one of his stewards who informed him that his advisors had gathered in the war room, and waited at his leisure.

He felt drained. It had taken nearly the entire day to visit all the families of those lost, to share his condolences and offer what little he could in recompense. All he wanted was to go to his chambers and open another bottle of wine so he could find the sleep that had sidestepped him so neatly the other night. Instead, he sighed, nodded, and nodded again when Abel mentioned bringing him a small plate of savouries during the meeting.

Removing his riding gloves, he dismissed the guards still at his back and started the trek up the stairs to a room that had not seen much use since he inherited the title and name of Virion from his father. The doorman standing at attention opened it for him without hesitation, and the Duke of Rosanne strode in amidst scattered conversation that swiftly petered out. Taking his seat at the head of the table, he greeted each of them by name, granting a nod as well, before gesturing they begin.

At once, they clamored, some more insistent than others, bandying about ideas for defensive strategies, offense, traps to be laid and resources necessary for war — his eyes slid shut to the cacophony. He listened still, hand resting against the table, finger tapping the polished wood, but he offered no input. It would be far wiser to listen to their thoughts and suggestions and take them with him to mull over on his own, where he could more easily hear himself think. The promised plate of savouries appeared at his elbow, and he absently thanked the servant who had brought it, and a glass of white wine. He eyed the glass longingly before sighing and taking a meat pasty from the plate, pulling it into smaller bites with his fingers and eating slowly. His attention remained split, but he did his best to listen intently to his advisors. When they were finished, he would consider the options before him and decide the best course — as he had always striven to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “For at the end of the day, what matters is never the wine, it's always the moment; it's always the people.”  
> - _Into Wine: An Invitation to Pleasure_ , Olivier Magny


	3. Chapter 3

Virion sat silently in the war room as one of his captains gave the latest report verbally. His advisors muttered amongst themselves, incensed, but all Virion felt was exhausted.

The room had seen far too much use of late for his taste — war ill-suited their fair lands. Rosanne was built for peacetime, a place of respite and plenty, good cheer and affection, yet every day he walked amongst his people, he saw how the battles wore on them. More doors than not carried a wreath of mourning, if not several. His people staunchly refused to blame him — they saw it as a mark of pride to defend their homeland, despite the losses suffered, but Virion himself was less inclined to believe the rampant loss of life was worth it.

“... and a contingency of healers has been moved to the back lines, Your Grace, to attend to those suffering only light injuries.”

He nodded his head, thoughts whirling beneath a neutral facade, weighing them against each other. The room was filled with talking — arguments, he thought to himself idly, for all they were masked by civility.

“Your Grace surely sees the need to conscript more soldiers to fill the ranks — we can no longer stand on a volunteer basis if we wish to keep Rosanne whole.”

“My good sir, we have the harvest to consider — keeping our lands safe is of great import, indeed, but if the people starve and our stores run dry, will it not have been for nothing?”

“Ah, of course, my lord — I had not considered. But is it not then of greater magnitude that those working in the fields and orchards be properly guarded? The report given listed civilian casualties, caught in crossfire. The invasion will continue to press inward and the price of life will increase if we cannot repel those invading.”

“Dear captain, we have struggled in every battle from the beginning — we are simply not properly equipped to repel invaders of such a militaristic mien…”

His hand lifted from where he’d pressed forefinger and thumb to the growing migraine in his sinus, and silence reigned despite the subtlety of the gesture.

“My good men, speaking in circles such as this does not keep our beloved Rosanne safe. Your points are valid and worthy of consideration, to be sure — our fighting ranks thin with every battle and leave gaps in the armor for Walhart’s forces to slip through, but the harvest this year will go to waste if none yet stay to gather… and while our stores are far from empty, they are not so full that I may condone this abandonment when in a time of war, where food is already rationed.”

The murmuring began again, but a single look silenced it. His advisors waited, respectful to the last. He looked each in the face, the thoughts in his mind settling finally into what seemed to him the best course of action.

“... I must then propose an alternative. Walhart wishes to conquer these fair lands, and he will destroy it in this conquest if an understanding is not reached. I will go to him, and I will offer myself in exchange for the safety of the people of Rosanne.”

Immediately, cries of protest went out, as he’d expected.

“Your Grace, you mustn’t!”

“Giving in will only lead to your death, Your Grace…!”

“Peace!”

His voice was soft, but still called the rest to order, however tenuous his hold. He continued in the same vein, voice quiet but utterly unyielding.

“Walhart demands blood, and I will not sit idly as death comes to the doorstep of every man, woman, and child between him and I. You cannot ask this of me — it is too much.”

And then his oldest advisor spoke up. Lord Alain, who had advised his father and grandfather before him and had seen him grow from a lad to the young duke before them. He bit his tongue at the gentle reproach in the elder’s voice.

“Your Grace, we none of us would allow such a surrender, knowing the character of the upstart, Walhart… as surely as the sun rises and falls each day, the day you surrendered would be your last. With all due respect, you cannot ask  _ us _ to abide such a fate for you.”

His eyes closed, knowing his recommendation would go ignored now that this venerable advisor had voiced such. The reedy words sounded as if they’d been woven with steel.

“We will fight, Your Grace.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was hours after the meeting had adjourned and Virion sat, sleepless, in his chambers. The kitchen had sent up a meal, one he picked at to appease them, even with no appetite, and a decanter of wine.

It was his favorite red.

When he had seen it, he’d nearly broken — Mistress Tabitha had been among those who lost family in the battles, her son and daughter-in-law both felled in the same skirmish, and her brother in one not long after. Her attempt to cheer him only made him feel worse. He swirled the wine, tilting the glass back and forth as he sat at his chess table, gazing into the red depths morosely.

This would not do. His people’s courage would hamstring them if he let it. The price was too high, and far too dear — he shifted his eyes instead to the chess board, where a game sat half-played. He didn’t often have opponents, unless one of his councilors dropped by to issue a challenge. He’d never beaten the wily, old Lord Alain, no matter his numerous attempts. The old man was cunning and surprisingly vicious when sat at the board, and Virion had quickly learned to give no quarter if he wanted even the slimmest chance of holding out against him.

“Ah, what is the king without his loyal subjects to guard him…”

The words slipped from him unbidden, jarring in the silence of the empty chambers, but they rattled something inside him. His brow furrowed in thought — he set the untouched wine glass down to press a finger to the top of the king piece, eyes darting across the board as his jaw worked.

“... … … and what are the subjects without a king to protect…?”

The answer echoed in his head and he suddenly felt the air leave his lungs in a rush.

_ ‘Free.’ _

How long he sat there, he did not know. But a gentle knock and call had him leaning back, answering the familiar voice and bading her enter.

In walked his most trusted vassal — practicality ruled her, and had since they were children. As much as a man in his position could trust someone, he did for her. It was only this that spurred him to speak, giving voice to the conclusion he had reached.

“Cherche, my dear — I must leave Rosanne.”

She blinked in response, mouth snapping shut where she had been poised to offer a report, and considered his words with a calculating gleam in her eyes before offering a casual warning.

“They will never forgive you for it. You will be branded for the rest of your life a coward — are you so willing to sacrifice the dignity and history of your lineage, Your Grace?”

He flicked his eyes from the board to look at her, measuring in a glance what her stance told him: at ease in his presence, her face placid if not for the penetrating gaze aimed at him. He knew that look — she’d given him the same one whenever she thought an idea he’d come up with was worth pursuing. She was testing his resolve.

For her sake, he carefully sorted through the idea, thinking of both the positive and negative consequences that could befall him. After serious thought, he shook his head — all the consequences of fallout fell to him, and as the ruling Virion, it was his duty to weather such things to spare his people. He related as much to her.

“The people fight for my sake as much as to protect their homes. Rosannian’s are resilient, my dear — and such a betrayal may be enough to push them to survive through spite. At least long enough for me to find help… we cannot fight Walhart off without allies. His numbers are too great, and they grow by the day as more rally to his wretched cause… if the ire of the people focuses on me rather than the invasion, they will not fight and die needlessly. I can see no other recourse — my council has vehemently rejected me surrendering to keep my people unharmed.”

There was a pause, and a note of strain entered his voice.

“Cherche, I know the consequences this choice will hold — but there is no other option. You must understand.”

Her voice was softer than she normally would use to speak to him — and less formal. She spoke to him as a friend, not a servant.

“I do understand, Virion. But it is my duty to keep you safe — and Minerva and myself cannot leave with you.”

Cherche chewed her bottom lip briefly, staring at the window behind him as if it could give her answers.

“... We will see you to the nearest port. After that, you will have to be on your own. I’ll do what I can to keep things from spiraling out of control. Perhaps you could start in Regna Ferox in your hunt for allies? The Western Khan has hosted you before.”

He nodded, swallowing down the fondness he felt for the loyalty his friend and vassal showed — he knew she would rebuff any affection he showed.

“Yes, Port Ferox seems the best place to make berth. Plenty of our traders travel that way — Plegia is far less amiable to us, and their ports more heavily regulated. To Ferox I will go, then — perhaps the Western Khan will be able to offer troops in support. I am not current on the affairs of their continent, so we can only pray that they have resources to offer to that end…”

Cherche’s gaze narrowed on him again.

“You will have to take some valuables with you, if you intend to barter for anything. It may take a few days to arrange passage for you… we’ll seek out a Feroxi ship, lest you be recognized by one of our own. Once everything is arranged, you must come up with a way to slip away unnoticed. Can you do it?”

The cant of his lips quirked slyly, picking up the wine and taking a small sip of it. The flavor burst against his tongue, and he savored it despite himself.

“Why, my dear Cherche — is it not customary for gallant Virion to make rounds to the counties with the upcoming harvest to ensure everything is readied? We will begin with the western county this year. And you, of course, will accompany me. And Minerva, too. My guard has been stretched too thin recently — several have been sent to join the front lines. One vassal to keep an eye on me must be enough… and easy enough to slip away from, fleeing for my life. You will pursue me, of course — but I will slip your net, and you will return to report as much to my waiting war council.”

She lifted an eyebrow at his explanation, staring at him before shaking her head in defeat.

“It shall be as you say, Your Grace. I will begin making preparations immediately.”

The stern woman left without making her report — it was moot with the course her lord had decided on — and Virion cast his gaze over the possessions in his chambers, considering what would and would not be most useful in the coming venture in terms of weight and value. He very carefully did not think of the pall of shame his actions would cast over his noble house as he rose to his feet, finding a small pack and beginning to stow small treasures within. He would spend the pride of his name gladly if it bought the safety of his people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Like alcohol, desperation can make a coward seem courageous.”  
> \- Mokokoma Mokhonoana


	4. Chapter 4

The days pass. Too swiftly, and yet not swiftly enough, as Virion continued to receive reports of skirmishes, all-out battles, of casualties — both military and civilian. He heard no more from Cherche as she flitted around, pulling strings. All his attention had to be on trying to mitigate the losses his countrymen sustained. He argued for those most vulnerable — children and the elderly — to be escorted to the southernmost edges of Rosanne’s territory. There is an estate there, with plenty of empty outbuildings, he reminded. It will be safest for them, offer the most protection, he wheedled. His council caved, only to offer resistance to his decision to accompany them.

“Your Grace, you must not leave — it is too dangerous! Leave it to your officers, is that not their duty to discharge?”

“Nay. It is the duty of my officers to guide the men and women in battle, to defend our borders — and you know as well as I that we can ill afford any thinning of our numbers along those borders as Walhart tests our weaknesses. I will be safe enough — am I not the Duke of Rosanne, a Virion in both name and skill? Is not my house famed for the handling of a bow? I will be fine — I will go with a contingency of stewards, armed, and we will gather those of my people most vulnerable in possible raids and spirit them to safety. I will hear no other arguments on the matter — it is closed.”

His voice, smooth as silk, brooked no protests. Any resistance died on the tongues of his council. He continued idly, purposefully ignoring the upset they each wore differently.

“If Cherche comes back from the errand she is running, you may send her to join the envoy. With Minerva, she will be able to move far more quickly, and it will prove all the safer for her ability to scout both ahead and behind.”

Confusion warred with dismay, and he staunchly refused any further elucidation.

“Your… your vassal, Your Grace? Surely there are… there are men better suited to assist in guarding you and the.. the common folk.”

“Cherche is renowned for her skill with an axe. She is as fearsome as her partner — need I remind you that Minerva is a wyvern? And a more steadfast guard cannot be found — at least not easily and quickly. She may be back at the estate in as soon as two or three days. Sending a message to the frontlines and receiving a guard back would take a week, maybe more if they are delayed. That is time I am not willing to waste. It will be Cherche or no one.”

Unwillingness was writ in every face in the room, but they bowed to the will of their lord nonetheless.

“It will be as you say, Your Grace. We will see to the preparations.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Less than a day later, Virion walked at the head of a line of wagons, bow at the ready at his side and the steward riding at the head of the line on his other. She was a sweet, canny thing. He was very careful to speak only charming words of nothing — even after they began gathering the elderly and children of the furthest out villages and her attention was split between her lord and her new charges.

“Your Grace, pardon me for askin’, but I didn’t know there was another estate — is it abandoned?”

“No, dear Chantelle. It is where the former Duke of Rosanne resides —“

“Oh! Forgive me my ignorance, Your Grace…!”

“Peace, my dear — they keep a small household to attend them, but my parents are well into their retirement. I write to them often, which is how I knew they had the space to take these people in. We are far friendlier with our neighbors to the south than the north, at present — there have not been hostilities from the south in well over a decade. They will be safe, and you and your fellow stewards will be absorbed into the household to help care for the new residents.”

“But… But, Your Grace…”

“Yes, my dear?”

“You cannot be left alone to travel back to your estate — it would be the height of negligence, surely your —“

A familiar cry wrent the air and his gaze flicked up to the sky behind them — and Chantelle quietly panicked.

“Y-your Grace, they’ve found… they’ve f-found us…!”

“It is no enemy that circles overhead Chantelle, calm yourself — it seems Cherche and her Minerva have joined our party. She will be my escort home once we’ve completed our mission.” He paused, glancing over at the young woman for a moment as she fanned herself with a hand. “We’ll stop for a short rest while I see what she has to say — please help the other stewards see that our guests have something to eat and drink, perhaps stretch their legs before we continue on.”

The young steward calmed visibly at his words, nodding as he gave her orders and signaling a halt to the caravan. Virion strode to a hillock a short ways away, and Minerva glided lower until she was able to set down. Cherche gracefully slid off her back, sketching a brief bow to him out of habit.

“Your Grace — I did not know it was the Duke’s duty to escort civilians to safer quarters.”

For all the visible formality, he heard the dryness of her words as she subtly reprimanded him for his recklessness. A smile tilted the corners of his lips up.

“Ah, but my dear — once we have delivered our guests to my parents estate, the stewards that accompany us will remain to join that household. It will just be you and I for the return journey — a perfect romantic getaway—“

Minerva’s maw opened threateningly in his direction, and he quickly backtracked.

“Please, you must learn to take a joke, my dear — call Minerva off, if you please.”

Amusement danced in Cherche’s eyes as she laid a calming hand against her mount’s neck, and Minerva drew back, fairly purring in contentment.

“It would have been nice to be informed of this change in plans in advance, instead of coming home to find you absent and your council all but demanding I go to join you as a guard.”

The censure in her voice was light, and he sobered to hear it. He spoke seriously, keeping his face carefully devoid of emotion lest they be interrupted by one of the stewards as they made rounds with food and drink.

“I know — and if you had taken longer in your errand, the original plan would have stood. But, Cherche… I cannot wait any longer. Every day the death toll climbs higher — every day more lives are lost to such reckless hatred…”

Emotion threatened him and he took a moment to master it again, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

“No… no, this will be for the best. The sooner I flee, the sooner the fighting may come to a halt — and the less lives will be lost.”

Her voice was surprisingly gentle as she replied.

“And you are still so certain? Have you conferred with your father on the matter?”

Virion shook his head minutely, frowning slightly.

“No. I had planned to broach the matter when we arrived at my parents’ estate… not to garner his approval, but so he could at least know a fall in grace was coming. He will not argue with me — he has not received the reports I have, but even so far south, they will have seen the strain as men and women are called to muster…”

Her head bowed slightly, nodding in acquiescence. Minerva made a soft noise in alarm, and both of them turned to see an approaching Chantelle. Virion smiled charmingly, nodding at her as she approached — the smile that she sent back almost had him choking on his guilt. Such trust… his jaw clenched to keep his expression from falling.

“Your Grace… Lady Cherche, you and your wyvern gave us quite a fright…! Thought you might want some victuals after such a long flight. Brought some for the wyvern, too.”

Cherche relieved her of several apples immediately, thanking her properly.

“How kind of you… Chantelle, yes? I’m sure Minerva is most grateful, as am I — long flights certainly wear her out.”

As she spoke, she unthinkingly offered the apples one by one to her partner, and Minerva took them from her palm as delicately as a horse might. The fascination and horror on Chantelle’s face had him wondering if she thought all wyverns must be mighty beasts with an appetite for flesh. He chuckled softly and her attention turned to him — and she smiled shyly as she offered him an apple and a bit of jerky.

“It’s not anything fancy — no proper feast, but…”

He accepted the offering gracefully, nodding again in thanks.

“I am not unaccustomed to rougher fare, my dear. I have done my fair share of long marches — and I hunted often with my father when he was still Duke Virion, and I only Virion the Younger.”

He carefully shined the fruit against his padded vest, stowing the jerky in a pocket for later as they walked. Biting in, he savored the tart flesh — and all the more as he realized it might be a long while after he left that he could enjoy such a treat. The bit of apple he chewed seemed to stick in his throat for a moment, but Chantelle was thankfully distracted by Cherche cooing over Minerva, scritching under her chin as she heaped praises upon the preening wyvern. He cleared his throat carefully, and Chantelle looked back at him almost guiltily. His answering smile was indulgent.

“We will continue to break for the next quarter of an hour before picking back up. There are only two settlements remaining to gather our passengers before we make the trek south… If you would please inform the rest of the stewards, dear Chantelle?”

She flushed prettily and curtsied, shooting him another smile before she left to rejoin the rest of the party. He watched her leave, regret roiling in his stomach as the smile faded from his face. Cherche spoke again, and he started, turning halfway to face her.

“So we will deliver these people into your parents’ estate and care, and… then what? What harebrained scheme is running through that mind of yours, Virion?”

He chuckled ruefully as his head tilted back slightly.

“Something foolish, most probably. We will deliver these people and then — we make for the port town. I assume you’ve finished arranging my passage to Ferox?”

Her scoff was as reassuring as her words.

“I would not have made the journey back had I not completed my task.”

The grimness of his voice belied the calm expression on his face.

“Then my course is set, it seems. I have but to follow it, to whatever end.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He leaned against the ship’s railing, eyes fixed to the coast as they sailed further away. Virion could still hear Minerva’s screech as she batted aside pursuing enemies — he could still see Cherche’s bare back as she faced down the men who had been watching the harbor to give him time to escape, men Walhart’s generals had placed to regulate the comings and goings of the ships. They had no inkling they might run across a fleeing duke, but it had not stopped them from leaping into action.

He was grateful that the Feroxi merchant Cherche had chosen had no patience for the plays of conquerors — he had looked Virion up and down, scoffed at the clothing he wore, and welcomed him aboard.

So, he was leaving — he felt ill. Blaming it on the roiling waves and the sway of the ship was easy enough, if he hadn’t known it to be from abandoning his people.

What if his ploy didn’t work? He would have abandoned them to Walhart’s destructive whims, vulnerable… His jaw clenched against the demand to aboutface the vessel and return.

Chantelle’s smile flashed across his mind’s eye — and Mistress Tabitha’s warm chuckle — Lord Alain’s sparkling gaze as he backed Virion into a corner during a chess game… Madam Odette, clutching the flowers of mourning in her hand as he brought her news of her deceased wife.

He could blame the sickness on the sea, but he had no such excuse for the tears pooling in his eyes. They blurred the shoreline and he was swift to dash them from his eyes — intent to watch the coast fade until all he could see was blue, from sea to sky.

The weeks of the journey are spent restlessly. He can only circle the deck so many times — he almost feared he may wear straight through the wooden planking. Over and over again, he ran through his choice, the other options he may have taken, other courses he could have followed. What if’s plagued him as nightmares might during his waking hours — and nightmares crept in while he slept.

All his fears given life and voice, lingering when he woke until he felt only a shell of himself remain. He almost blessed the morning watch when she called out that land was in sight — the sea drove him stir crazy with possibilities he might have missed.

He spent the next day carefully pulling together his belongings and smoothing out the wrinkles the salt air had caused his clothing to take — he had to present a strong image to the Western Khan, if he hoped to make an ally of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “There are days when solitude is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic, and still others when it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall.”  
> \- _Oeuvres complètes en seize volumes_ , Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette


End file.
